For John
I wrote the following in memory of John.
The Critique
It was quite possibly the
worst day ever; the kind of day when your authentic self has been pounded into
a pulp and then smeared across the floor. I have had some brutal art critiques,
but none of those compared to the one that I found myself in on this particular
Thursday afternoon. I stood there, with tears coursing down my cheeks as I endured
the criticism.
Earlier that afternoon I had stood
in the gallery, marveling at the artwork that hung on the walls. My artwork—I still
couldn’t believe that I had completed 20 pieces of work in 2 months. Which is
not something I would encourage any future art student to do—procrastination is
not a wise way to view school projects. And while I had finished all 20
pieces—only a handful of them were up to my standards. I knew I was in for a scolding; I just wasn’t
prepared for the disappointment.
John C. Williams was a legend
at the School of Visual Art and Design at Southern Adventist University.
According to those who never dared to take a class from him, he was the
meanest, hardest, most terrible teacher ever. To those of us who dared to enroll in one of
his classes, we knew him as an adopted father. Yes, he demanded perfection,
hard work and no excuses—but we also knew that he cared about each one of us.
Either you applied yourself and did the work required. Or you didn’t. It was
that simple.
And it was on that day that I
learned that I was a disappointment to my teacher. He knew that I could do
better. I knew that I could have done better—if only I had been true to myself.
Instead, I did what I thought John wanted—realistic instead of abstract—artwork
from reference photos—instead of my heart. It took me a few months after
graduation to realize that I needed that scolding, to see the big picture—to
understand that my priority shouldn’t be to gain approval from those around me—but
to be true to my authentic self and to God.
I had created the artwork
that I had thought that I was supposed to create. It was beautiful, but nothing
in those paintings or drawings spoke of who I was as an artist. I had been so
intent on gaining John’s approval that I missed the entire point of the
showcase. The showcase wasn’t about John. It was about me. But I was focused on
John, what he liked and didn’t like. I wasn’t willing to put myself into my
work. I thought that I was, but looking back now, I know that I wasn’t.
John knew that I had a special gift; I had the
creativity to be an amazing artist. What I lacked was self-motivation. I knew
that I was good, so I didn’t try as hard as some of my classmates. I knew that
I had the talent, but didn’t push myself as hard as I should have. Art comes
easy for me, just like math might come easy for some of you. Because it was
easy for me, I didn’t bother with being true to my authentic self. Instead I
concerned myself with what I thought John wanted.
That misunderstanding on my
part put a strain on our student/teacher relationship—I resented him. I felt
like he had been unfair. Fathers love their children, even when they have to
punish them. John was a father figure to each one of his students—we knew that
he would do anything for us. He cared deeply about each one of us and treated
us as individuals. John knew when we were having a bad day and often went out
of his way to make sure that we were ok. He was concerned about every aspect of
our lives, including our spiritual walk with God. Our art classes were 2 ½
hours long, yet John spent that time reading to us from the Bible. He’d
introduce us to books that asked important questions, like Case for Christ. He’d open the floor for discussion as he trained
us to be excellent Christian artists.
Do you understand now why my
final art critique was so difficult for me to overcome? I had not been true to
my beautiful authentic self. Just as a parent has to discipline an unruly
child, so John had to be hard on me in order for me to grasp the depth of my
creativity. I still don’t understand the true depth of my creativity. My only
regret is that I was never able to thank John for that difficult final
critique. John died from liver cancer on October 8, 2009; I never got the chance
to tell him. During my last 2 years of college, John was battling liver
cancer—yet he never missed an opportunity to witness to his students.
I owe John more than just
that lesson. My senior year was very difficult for me; my spiritual walk with
God was wavering. I didn’t know what I believed and I had a multitude of
questions that I needed answered. I had stopped attending church and spent my
time pouring through my Bible, hunting for those answers. I took my questions
to the religion professors; surely they would be able to explain things to me.
But they just told me what I should believe and expected me to follow their
advice. I shook off the idea of being simply a cookie-cutter Christian. I was
disgusted and unhappy; I just wanted to understand, in what did I believe?
In desperation, I wrote John
a quick email. That evening, when I went to the art studio, I found a stack of
books sitting on my easel. A simple gesture, but one that meant the world to
me; it told me that John cared. He cared so much about my spiritual walk with
God that he wasn’t going to just give me the answer. Instead he guided me
through each question with books written by various authors who dissected each
one of those daunting questions.
When I think about John, I am
reminded of the hymn When We All Get to
Heaven. The hymn speaks of what it will be like when we get to heaven. The
chorus is what sticks with me, it says; “When we all get to heaven, what a day
of rejoicing that will be! When we all see Jesus, we’ll sing and shout the
victory!” When all get to heaven, those
words bring joy to my heart. When I get to heaven, with guardian angel in tow—I’m
going to find John—and once I find him, I am going to throw my arms around his
neck and thank him.
Thank you John for being true
to your authentic self and for teaching me to do likewise—it has been much
appreciated.
Thank you for sharing this. Very meaningful.
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